


Worn Out

by 00FFFF



Category: Hermitcraft
Genre: Character Study, Decked Out, Decked Out Powers AU, Gen, Introspection, Non-human hermits - Freeform, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:21:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28711932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/00FFFF/pseuds/00FFFF
Summary: Etho reflects on his achievements in Decked Out. What is the point of power if it only further alienates him from himself?Set in theDecked Out Powers AU.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45





	Worn Out

Etho grasps the key to the dungeon in between his claws, holding it for a moment longer before he pops it in the barrel. The doors hiss and with a familiar  _ click  _ they unlock. Etho nudges them open with his head, and steps through. The transformation washes away like magic and he sighs, content.

Wings, scales, and spikes retreat back into his body, like they were never even there. Like they won’t pop out again when he leaves. Etho gets up on his hind legs and climbs the stairs, letting himself fall onto the bed before sinking into the soft mattress.

He takes a deep breath, allowing himself a moment of nothingness before he’ll have to get up again.

This is the one place where he feels truly calm, lately. The world outside of the dungeon has become one of playful chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Every hermit who has played Decked Out even once will have figured it out. The artefacts they collect grant them abilities,  _ transformations. _ Scoring a point makes those transformations permanent, as Etho knows all too well.

He’s in the lead for points now. He’s got more ‘powers’ than anybody else on the server. But he can’t help but feel like he lost himself somewhere along the line, though.

The way it feels as if the artefacts are fighting with-  _ against  _ each other over his body. The way his blood feels like it’s boiling, but even the heat of the Nether didn’t seem to be able to pierce his thick hide.

He doesn’t recognize himself anymore whenever he catches sight of his reflection. Who would, in his situation? No one would look at a dragon-like beast, skin a patchwork of scales, gemstones, metal, fur, and feathers, and think: “Yes, that’s me. This is who I have always been.”

It’s the same reason Etho is hesitant to try out new clothes. He knows who he is, and if he changes that, then he changes  _ himself.  _

Who even is he, outside of this dungeon?

Etho rolls onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling. He rubs the creeping tiredness from his eyes. Not now. He has to get ready, has to be alert for what comes next.

It’s only inside of this room, and inside of the dungeon that Etho gets to be himself. Something about the transformations giving the hermits an unfair advantage against the ravagers, Tango had said. In the dungeon, they have to rely on their  _ own  _ skills.

He won’t have the elaborate bee wings on his back to lift him to different platforms. He won’t have the poisonous spikes that could harm a ravager more than they could harm him, with his skin made of iron and rock. He won’t even feel compelled to eat the flowers in the forest, even  _ if  _ he doesn’t feel hunger anymore.

He barely remembers how long it’s been since that first complete set. The days have started to blend together. Peace only comes when he’s in the dungeon, and even then he’s on a timer. 

Etho wishes he could stay in this neutral space for longer. But he knows that there are already other hermits waiting just outside those iron doors, waiting for their chance to try and conquer the dungeon. They’re excited about the prospect of collecting new artefacts, of collecting new  _ powers.  _ Most of them have only traded in one or two sets at most. They’re still recognizable. They’re having  _ fun,  _ even outside of the dungeon. 

Some hermits chase after specific items, trading artefacts and transformations with each other as soon as new ones are revealed. It’s not a rare sight to see hermits chatting with each other in the main hall, eyeing each others’ boards like hawks, waiting for the moment a  _ unique  _ artefact is pulled out of a treasure chest.

Etho must have run the dungeon over a hundred times, now. He knows all of its secrets, all its hidden passages and puzzles. He knows the places he can stay for a little bit longer without running into danger, and he has memorized the layout of every quadrant by heart. He knows what he’s doing. He knows what he’s here for.

And even after a hundred times, he still likes it. It’s  _ thrilling.  _ There’s nothing there to distract him, nothing that stands in his way of honing his  _ own  _ abilities. The dungeon feels different every single time he runs it, and yet it’s familiar in a way that calms his mind, that gets rid of unnecessary thoughts. Inside the dungeon there are no powers. It’s just him. Pure skill. Strategy. It’s as raw as it can be. 

These are the only moments where he feels like himself.  _ Truly  _ himself. He reminds himself that he’s still Etho. That this all will blow over once the game is done. 

He buys all the available keys just to give him more opportunities to calm down when needed. To return to himself, for just a moment, before braving the dungeon once again.

The dungeon, as dangerous as it is, feels safe. Etho will stay inside until the very last second, checking barrels and soul flames until he’s caught. He’d rather get killed inside than leave the dungeon of his own.

Yes, some powers could be considered useful. Like being able to enchant items at any moment, without the use of an enchantment table. But what good is that if he can’t even hold his tools with how big his claws have gotten? What good are cactus spines when they only keep people away from him? What good are the cocoa pods growing from his body when he doesn’t need to eat?

Etho sits himself up, and starts putting away his items in the barrels next to him. He isn’t carrying much, anyway. He doesn’t need to eat out there, he can’t use his tools, he can’t work on his base or his delicate redstone... There’s not much for him out there anymore. 

With the whole HEP versus the Mycelium Resistance thing going on most of the hermits are busy fighting against each other, using their powers in elaborate ways to try and catch the other team off guard. Etho wishes he could participate more in something like that. His body won’t let him. These- these  _ modifications  _ won’t let him. He’s a beast, out there. A monster. Good for nothing but waiting for the timer in the dungeon to tick down in order to get another key, another brief glimpse at what his life was like before.

Etho is startled from his thoughts by a tear that rolls down his face, seeping into the fabric of his mask. A tear that, when shed outside of this dungeon, would be enough to kill another player in a matter of seconds.

Etho shakes his head. Now is not the time to think about that.

He should have known better when he saw the other hermits. He should have never turned in that Dragon Set. It's been here since the very beginning, slowly claiming more and more of his body, twisting him into something new. Something different.

Etho knows that Zedaph, who handed in the very first completed set of the game, also handed in the Dragon Set. Etho hasn’t seen him in a while, but if he has anything going on like what has happened to Etho, then he doesn’t blame him for waiting it all out before the world returns to normal. Before  _ he  _ returns to normal.

Then he finally won’t have to worry about accidentally growing roots and killing all the plants in his luscious jungle area anymore. He won’t have to worry about dragon’s breath slipping out when he isn’t paying attention anymore. Or the villagers that love to talk his ears off whenever he gets close. The whole world will be less loud, less bright, less  _ overwhelming,  _ with the way all of his senses have been boosted. The heavy wings on his back that allow him to fly freely only serve to remind him how much of himself he’s lost.

All he can do now is play. Play, because then the game will be over sooner. Play, because that’s the only time he can get rid of all these alterations. 

Etho pushes himself off of the bed, and enters his cards into the machine. It’s ready to go, now. Etho isn’t. He wants to stay in this room longer, but he knows he can’t.

He looks back at the iron doors. When the run is over he’ll turn back. Wings, horns, and spikes will sprout again, and he’ll be forced onto four legs, forced to walk the earth as something he is not. Maybe he’ll even have a new artefact to add to his board. To add to his body.

Etho thought about giving up. To stop playing Tango’s game, and just walk away. But that would mean that this was all for nothing. That he played with the very essence of his being, almost losing himself in the process, all for  _ nothing.  _

No, he can’t give up now. Not when he’s come so far. It’ll be over soon.

Etho takes a deep breath, turning to look at the dungeon doors.

In here, he’s human. 

In here, he’s vulnerable.

Etho presses the button, and the dungeon comes to life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! This is different from what I usually do, but I really enjoyed the writing process! Let me know what you thought?


End file.
